Indy Recall

Though I could probably tell you the exact location and circumstances under which I first saw some 90% of the films I’ve yet under my belt, Raiders of the Lost Ark is one of the those works with which my first encounter eludes the span of my memory. Admittedly, I may have first seen it at such a young age – say, five or younger – that any such remembrance would be unlikely for anyone. Whatever the reasons, it is one of the few films whose presence has always felt all-encompassing to these eyes – the kind of landmark that one has a hard time imagining to have ever not existed, like the central point on a timeline by which all other events regard themselves.

This speaks to the importance and popularity of Raiders, for sure, but it also is, quite ironically, the biggest single impediment to my ability to enjoy the film to its fullest extent, and one all the more aggravating given my awareness of it. Intrinsic to any cinematic experience – scratch that, to any experience – is that first-time unveiling: of chance and doubt rolled up into one singular event as time unfolds and anything could yet happen. Movies often wax on repeat, and I’ve generally found that multiple viewings are necessary to fully enjoy the possibilities therein – in some cases, I can remember which specific viewing of a film was the most rewarding, or that which provided the sought-after emotional breakthrough (Miami Vice - #2; There Will Be Blood - #5, Inland Empire - #3). But there’s nothing like that first dip, and Raiders is a work I feel thoroughly deprived of in the loss-of-virginity department.

Which isn’t to say I don’t enjoy the film immensely, though my relationship with it has been a tad rocky over the years. In some of my early efforts at criticism (on a now-defunct Geocities page), I remember granting the film four stars in a review that wasn’t so much my own reflections as it was an attempt to judge the film based on my perceived notions of what was correct for a film – a sterile analysis of plot, acting, and various technical elements that probably could have been written by anyone regardless of their own personal viewing experience, not so much an artistic reflection but a summary of its respective ingredients. Upon realizing this (and who knows how many other factors), my take on the film took a downturn – more a knee-jerk response in hopes of improving my own viewing methods than a response to the film itself. Freed from the shackles of criticism as objective journalism (surely we cannot overcome our biases – hence opinions – but we can recognize them and contextualize them), the film’s impeccable structure now strikes me less (which is to say, not at all) as soul-deprived form than as a tightly-wound experiment in genre construction, a distillation of its stylistic predecessors into a singular, deliberately iconic whole.

I still can’t hold it nearly as high as the likes of Jaws or E.T. (or more recent far like War of the Worlds and Munich – all works as personally felt as they are artistically accomplished), but it remains one heluva spectacle, to say the least, balancing the swashbuckler spirit of its source material (late in the film, Indy admits to making his plans up as he goes along) with plotting so effortless that Spielberg’s all-encompassing presence feels strangely invisible amidst the spectacle at hand. A friend tells me I need to see the film projected in order to grasp the fullness of its effect, and I don’t doubt his assurance for a second. There are a number of films I’d all but kill to experience again for the first time, and though it is unlikely that I’d ever be able to wipe my mind clean of every death-defying stunt and twisting plot development of Raiders, I sense that enlarging the image by 100x in the darkened annals of the cinema would be about as close to seeing the film with new eyes as one could possibly achieve.

My first impressions of Temple of Doom exist more clearly in my mind, having first seen it around age 9 or 10 and having disliked it quite immediately (along with Jurassic Park, my younger self had a rather vitriolic response to Spielberg’s more violent tendencies), with images of eyeball soup, lava pits and bugs amuck remaining potent from that viewing experience. These attempts at making the second entry darker (ushering in the now tepid PG-13 rating, along with that year’s Gremlins) still stick out to me like a sore thumb, though, warts and all, I quite dug Speilberg’s second entry upon revisiting it, some 12 or so years later. The opening musical rendition of “Anything Goes” (effectively detailed here by Matt Zoller Seitz – read all three pieces while you’re at it, they're more than worthwhile) says it all, in that Spielberg isn’t out so much to recreate the effect of Raiders (a fruitless effort, really, since Indiana’s debut stands pretty close to perfection) as he is to have a good time bucking convention. Such scoffing at expectations is made even more immediately apparent in the presentation of the film’s title. As the unlikely heroine Willie, Kate Capshaw – soon to be the second Mrs. Spielberg – has already begun her surreal nightclub routine by the time the title comes up, only for it to appear behind her swaying form. Thus, even the film’s status as the second in a franchise has taken backseat to whatever whims may or may not cross Steven’s mind.

All this and more I dug upon my recent and long-delayed second viewing, though I may never get over the perpetual annoyance that is Short Round (Jonathan Ke Quan) or the squeamish and nature-phobic antics of the aforementioned Willie. I’m holding out any sort of long-lasting judgment, however, because Temple of Doom is a film I know I want to revisit again, probably several times over, if only for how pivotal a place it seems to hold in Spielberg’s canon. His first major disappointment as regards critical and audience responses, its as enthralling and daring as it is lopsided and awkward – from the death-defying free fall in a life raft to the creepy crawlies turned up to eleven. I can look past these, though, given the film’s strengths, from the awesome mine cart chase (probably the visceral highlight of the first three films, literally redefining the blockbuster as a roller coaster ride of excitement) to the numerous sequences in which the characters maintain completely isolated in their perspectives as regards the events at hand; Indy and Willie’s bait-and-tease mating ritual remains one of the most humorously erotic sequences I can recall having seen.

And then there’s The Last Crusade, unseen by me until last year and, at this juncture, the entry I most enjoy out of the original trilogy. Consider the jury out, then, until some much-needed second, third, and umpteenth viewings have taken place, but what speaks to me most about the third film is the very noticeably personal qualities interwoven by Spielberg, charting Indy’s legacy as one of personal exploration and fulfillment indebted to history, both as a physical entity and as family bloodline. Filmmaking wise, it may be the least accomplished of Spielberg’s efforts here, but greatness and perfection needn’t go hand in hand, and Steven’s canvas is one I’ll happily indulge in any day (and it's no small accomplishment that the film features what is quite possibly the funniest Hitler gag since The Producers, if not more so). I’ll be doing so in about an hour when The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull debuts at midnight, and more so in the near future, as I hope to tackle the entirety of his catalogue, from Duel to Munich and back to Crystal Skill for a second go-around late in its theatrical run.